Of Swans and Swine
Chapter 7; Part 2
“The left hand panel; it is Eden of course but an Eden populated with extraordinary creatures and edifices. Some of them I am aware of and have even seen a Giraffe in Florence once. The Venetian painter Bellini has also painted the creature and it is almost identical to the one we see here. Others seem to be the stuff of legend and superstition and those in the morass are clearly the stuff of Creation itself, generated from the water, mud and dung.”
The monk chuckled,
“Oh, it is almost certain that Master Bosch copied these animals from books. From what I have heard, he never left ‘s Hertenbosch during his lifetime. I have also seen an elephant drawn by the traveller, Von Breydenbach in his Holy Pilgrimages over two hundred years ago. We have a copy of the book here and the representation is identical but surely, you don’t expect master Bosch to be original and anyway, it is hardly important in the context of the picture as a whole. There is surely room for empirical observation alongside the depiction of fantastical superstition don’t you think? Many make the mistake of singling out details from these panels but I believe Bosch designed them to be viewed as a whole. You are correct in assuming that the left panel is the Creation, though I find it interesting that he allows violence and murder into the Garden before the Fall, suggesting that sin has always existed.”
Pietro frowned,
“Are you referring to the bear and the leopard? That is the natural way of things is it not and not indicative of sin. As you say, this represents Eden before the Fall, God is clearly beneficent here and Adam and Eve are not yet ashamed of their nakedness. There was no sin before the Fall, therefore it cannot be represented here.”
Pietro tried to control his tone and not be too strident. He didn’t wish to frighten the monk away again but inaccuracy was inaccuracy and needed to be corrected. He changed the subject.
“I am very interested in the structures in these scenes. Many seem to be organic and yet many are also undoubtedly glass or metal. Is this also meant to be an alchemical allegory,where the process of distillation imitates creation? That building, or edifice, on the egg shaped rock there, the one with the black birds flying through. The birds fly in a spiral through the tower and emerge to fly downwards in a different colour. Now I’m no expert but in alchemical iconography, birds represent vapours and homes and structures such as this one are the vessels which contain them, am I right? The black birds are the impure gases and after they have been purified, return as white birds and thus clean vapours; or at least that’s what it suggests to me. Oh, now I see it; it’s not a building but a sort of rounded furnace and the openings are ducts for the vapours and thus the flying birds. The owl in the pink fountain too, is that not known as the alchemist’s mascot because he too works through the night?”
Brother Franciscus took a little time before responding. As far as he was concerned, the owl was also a symbol for sinfulness, thus reinforcing his own views that sin was integral to the Garden of Eden. The friar had certainly reacted strongly to the suggestion of amendment to the theory of original sin. Yet was the serpent itself not the epitome of sin and did it not exist in the garden before the Fall? Ach, it didn’t matter but why would an Italian Friar be so interested in a Bosch piece in Brussels in the first place, unless he had another agenda? He wasn’t sure what Fra Pietro’s views on alchemy were, or anything else for that matter.
It paid to take care who you spoke to these days. Maybe he was working for Frans Van Holly, the new Inquisitor General for the Netherlands. Now that was definitely a man to be feared, even by the righteous. Only in January that year, Franciscus had bade a sad farewell to Adrian Boeyens as he set off on his journey to Rome to become Pope. He had been the previous Inquisitor General but one he knew and like personally. Van Holly was a different kettle of fish and his spies were said to be everywhere. If this Friar had been sent to investigate his faith then he must be careful what he said.
They had told him that his introduction came from Desiderius Erasmus himself but maybe that was forged; Erasmus was surely in Switzerland. He needed to be cautious but then again, the study of alchemy was not itself a sin. However, the hours he had spent assisting Count Henry and his friends in their quest for alchemical knowledge, should remain secret. There was always the need at court for more revenue and the rewards for being the first to transmute base metals into gold were incalculable. It was rumoured that the Popes themselves spent countless sums of money on discovering its secrets, so answering the friar’s questions on that subject should be safe enough providing his own involvement was not revealed.
“You may be right Fra Pietro. Certain alchemists believe that the ultimate philosopher’s stone is the Earth itself so I’ve heard; created by God and only able to attain perfection after its destruction and rebirth, as written in the Bible. Thus if these panels are an alchemical tract then they show distillation as the mimicry of creation and I don’t believe that comes into conflict with Christian belief, or does it? Perhaps Bosch scattered his works with alchemical clues because it has become such a secret science in our time and something that occupies the minds of the greatest rulers. In this way, the ignorant cannot interpret what is apparent to the wise. Then again, there are so many charlatans and so many desperate souls who believe them. I’m sure you have them in Italy too. It is also possible Bosch was instructed to convey certain messages in the commission. On the other hand, as you astutely point out, references to alchemical apparatus are not difficult to find in these works. However, like yourself, I can’t pretend to be expert in this area and anything I might say can only be guesswork. I prefer to see the panels for what they outwardly are; that is powerful enough I feel. Let us move on to the central panel shall we?”
Brother Franciscus was satisfied. He had been able to answer the friar’s question without committing himself to a view either way. He knew that certain orders and sections of the Church were opposed to alchemy as a science, viewing it and its practitioners as potential heretics and watching for anything that might countermand the principles of the true faith. Yet others, probably including the Inquisition, whilst seeking out dissidents would not hesitate to eliminate rivals in the race to discover the secrets of untold wealth. He had heard that the coffers of the Vatican were already overflowing with transmuted gold. If that were true then Pietro may be here to seek out other centres of production and while the court of Nassau was certainly not close to a successful formula, the search itself could be incriminating. He had no intention of falling into that particular trap.
Pietro, however, was already absorbed by the activities in the central panel.
“This shows the multiplication of the offspring across the Earth doesn’t it and now I am convinced these panels have an alchemical purpose; they abound with the apparatus of the laboratory and the symbolism of transmutation.”
“Yet is that not the basis of our faith; creation, proliferation and destruction, so that the world maybe reborn and paradise regained? The distillation process is a metaphor for God’s purpose and the essential basis of all life. These paintings bring all the elements together to show that there is no essential difference between the science and the belief. Alchemists seek to imitate with physical elements what God has already done. The striving to imitate God’s work cannot be sinful; what do you believe Pietro?”
Irritated at being questioned in such a way, the friar turned to reprimand his guide.
“You enquire about my faith Brother Franciscus? That is a little presumptuous, along with your statement condoning the practice of alchemy. I would take care if I were you, that such ideas are not publicly broadcast.”
The monk looked at him perplexed.
“I have said nothing for some time Fra Pietro, what can you mean? To what ideas do you refer? I would most certainly never dream of questioning your faith; I don’t understand.”
Even as he spluttered his reply, Pietro knew he was telling the truth. The monk had said nothing yet someone had spoken to him. He looked around the room in the faint hope that there was someone else to account for the voice but of course, there was no one. Could he have imagined it? Was his mind playing tricks with him again? He grasped the monk’s arm a little too tightly so that the poor man winced.
“Of course…I apologise…I must have been thinking out loud but I didn’t mean to accuse you, please, tell me more about the panel.”
He knew he was blustering but needed time to think. Brother Franciscus gave him an anxious glance and then continued.
“As I said before, I prefer to look at the work as if it were simply a representation of God’s word. The central panel is fascinating don’t you think? Play, carnality and sinful coupling in all its forms leading inevitably to the final judgement and the fires of hell for those who did not repent. It is all so satisfyingly complete but what makes it a work of genius to my mind is the complexity of Bosch’s imagery. His references are so diverse and graphic. You take no pleasure from the scenes of lust and are chilled to the bone by the visions of Hell.”
Pietro murmured, more to himself than to his guide,
“So you don’t read this as an alchemical tract?”
Franciscus took this as a further opportunity to distance himself from potential pitfalls.
“No, it stands on its own as a masterly work; I don’t need to search it for hidden references though I don’t deny that they probably exist and now, I must hurry away again. I’m afraid I have an urgent need to relieve myself once more. Perhaps you can inspect the last panel for a short time. I’d be interested in hearing your opinions as to its quality.”
As he hobbled out, Franciscus mused that the last thing he wanted was to hear more of the friar’s views. The man was behaving strangely and he was convinced that there were ulterior motives and that in some way he was being tested. The quicker he could persuade the man to leave the better but he had to be tactful and not appear ruffled. The tension increased his need to piss and he hurried along the corridor in some discomfort.
Fra Pietro now knew all he needed to know regarding the painter Bosch’s acquaintance with the alchemical and hermetic science .The central panel was an homage to the alchemist’s work. There was full scale joining of opposites, black and white even, thus ensuring propagation of the prima material. It was portrayed as joyful intercourse; the evocation of God’s instruction to Adam and Eve to ‘go forth and multiply’ but the subtext was an encouragement to experiment with elements and blend them indiscriminately to see what would emerge. The paintings were littered with hybrids; plant, animal and it seemed, mineral. Many of the so-called ‘children’ were depicted doing cartwheels, or somersaults and thus reversing the accepted order and confirming the alchemical metaphor of the rising of vapours and their eventual condensation. Just as many were forming the letter ‘Y’ with their bodies, thus representing the hermaphrodite and everybody knew that the hermaphrodite represented the fusing of differing elements that occurred during alchemical conjunction. He had also noted many examples of the alchemical lapis; spherical, scarlet berry-like forms, which were not fruit. They shone from the picture like perfect red stones and were clearly edible and worthy of being offered as gifts; as clear a representation of the elixir of life as was possible to show. The panel was filled with what seemed to be fanciful forms and shapes but they could all be compared to diagrams of alchemical apparatus. The dark blue fountain of life for instance; did Bosch really think this could be mistaken for anything other than an alchemical flask? The preponderance of eggs too? This painter may have been clever but he was not subtle; these paintings could be read like a book. Brother Franciscus’ reluctance and apparent disinterest in the symbolism was also noted; the man was clearly involved to a degree that he didn’t wish Pietro to discover. Ah well, add him to the list; the tiny sprats were always found in the bellies of much bigger fish.
Having organised his conclusions in his mind, he turned his attention to the last panel with its visions of Hell. After just a minute’s close study, he found himself shivering. It wasn’t warm, it was true but this wasn’t happening because of the cold. He felt his whole body shaking as he gazed at the scenes of hellfire and destruction. They were shocking because they reminded him of his childhood nightmares. They had tormented him, every night more vivid than the last, for weeks on end, until his mother had given him a sleeping draught to send him into uneasy unconsciousness. The egg man from this last panel, appeared in those dreams too and he could remember his forlorn face, looking back and imploring the child Pietro to rescue him from eternal torment. He noticed the tree trunk legs glowing from within, like stoves, exactly as they had been in his dreams. He could hear the sound of that bagpipe on his head, just as he could then; a swirling, skirling discordant sound emerging from the bulbous, pulsing instrument like a shrieking banshee. He knew then that it was the Devil’s instrument but could also remember the first erections of manhood that he gained every time he heard that sinful sound. The egg man was not original to Bosch of course; he appeared throughout northern folklore but this one was Pietro’s nightmarish familiar. It was also an alchemical motif but this was his egg man, of that he was sure. Certain images from childhood never leave you and this face was as familiar to the priest as his right hand. It was so disturbing this panel, so different from the first two where there was a sort of rural calm and peace. Here was conflagration sliced through by the icy rivers that had once flowed through Eden. Buildings and towns belched smoke and flames and the naked men and women who had frolicked in the garden were now being tormented in unimaginable ways by the demons of Hell. He then caught sight of the shitting bird demon and knew that this was no coincidence. That huge bird creature seated on a sort of commode, eating and excreting sinners into a filthy cesspit, had been the Devil himself to the young child. Where the egg man had begged for his help, the bird demon had talked to him, enticed him and promised him everything he could want in return for his help in punishing sinners. Every night he was told he could force the glutton to vomit for eternity, or make a miser continually shit gold coins if he wished. The most alluring proposition however, was the promise that he could help the demons fondle and assault the lustful until they cried out from pain instead of pleasure. He had imagined himself crawling between the legs of lascivious women and while demons held the drapes open, entering their vaginas. It had been a temptation he didn’t fully understand at the time but led to a lasting revulsion of the female pudenda and possibly to his joining the priesthood.
Since then, he had always regarded large birds with some suspicion, fear even. Those had been his nightmares when he was ten and yet here they were terrifyingly vivid and haunting him once more. Everything he remembered and feared was depicted here before him but none of that was the cause of the feverish shaking now racking his body; that was inspired by the music.
As a child, his tutor had forced him to play the lute as a punishment for stealing a peach from the basket. He couldn’t play a note to begin with but was made to persevere until a recognisable melody could be heard. His parents were away and the tutor had free reign to discipline him as and when necessary but the hours plucking that lute left his fingers bloody and scarred to this day. It was no surprise then that musical instruments played another role in his nightmares and were also employed as instruments of torture. How was it possible that a painter from the north was able to reproduce those scenes so accurately and why did they still have the ability to reduce him to abject fear?
He forced himself to look at the painting, to try to face down his fears and rationalise what he saw. Instead, he felt the agony of the man crushed by the enormous lute and tears flowed down his cheeks at the sight of the one pierced and threaded by the strings of the harp. He could imagine himself in the place of the woman trapped in the hurdy gurdy and his rectum constricted at the thought of a flute being forced in that orifice. The buzzing cacophony of demonic sound gave him an excruciating pain in the back of his head as if the giant knife with the letter omega on the blade had already begun carving through his skull.
With the greatest difficulty, he tore himself away and sank to his knees completely spent.
‘Destruction and annihilation are the foundation stones of life. Do you believe that Pietro? Perfection can only be achieved if imperfection is eradicated. Paradise was lost but will be regained after everything is cleansed and purified by fire. That is the basis of our faith is it not? You worry that in the Final Judgement you will be condemned to Hell because of the sins of your childhood Pietro. Yet you know and believe that man can cleanse himself of his sins within his own lifetime. You do believe that don’t you Pietro? If you live your life in the service of God, as you purport to do, He will forgive you your sins, you will be cleansed and achieve redemption.is that not what the Church teaches? Is God thus also the supreme alchemist? What is your belief Pietro? Do you mistakenly confuse Him with human physicians? Yet alchemists amongst men cannot pretend to be divine, however successful their concoctions.”
This time, the friar knew that the monk had not returned. This voice was in his mind and try as he did to believe that he was talking to himself, the questions were not of his own making and thus had to come from elsewhere. Was God talking to him directly? He hardly dared imagine the possibility and as God was referred to in the third person, he could only assume that someone else was addressing him. He remembered his hallucination in the forest by the hag’s cottage, where St Peter himself had spoken to him in much the same manner of statement and question. Could it be that St. Peter was speaking to him now? That was surely impossible and the thought alone was the sin of supreme arrogance. There must be an explanation but here and now, whilst in such a state of confusion, was not the time to try to find it. His first need was to get away from those panels, out of the palace and into the fresh air. Without looking back at the paintings, he stumbled to his feet and unsteadily made his way into the corridor where a breathless Brother Franciscus confronted him once more.
“Fra Angelo, are you unwell? You look very pale and are those…?”
He paused, unwilling to use the word ‘tears’ but it was clear that the friar was deeply distraught by something. The man was completely unpredictable and possibly unbalanced. Certainly his motives were unclear.
“I am not able to support you alas but I can call someone. Maybe some fresh air would help. The atmosphere here is close and the air is thick with candle smoke, perhaps that has caused you to feel faint?”
Fortunately, both men felt the same need to get Pietro out of the palace as soon as possible and it wasn’t too long before he was able to mutter his thanks to his guide and take his leave. The relief at his exit was mutual.
He had no idea how long it had been since taking leave of Angelo earlier but the light was certainly dim, suggesting that it might be later in the afternoon than he had thought. There was a hush in the streets as most people and their horses and wagons had sensibly taken shelter from the steadily falling snow, which had begun to pile up against the steps and lintels of the houses. It struck him that snow was also one of God’s cleansing agents, at least temporarily. It cloaked all manner of unpleasantness and filth and so long as you remembered that it was merely cosmetic, could be appreciated for its extraordinary beauty.
Taking a moment to get his bearings, Pietro breathed in as deeply as he could. What was happening to him was by no means certain but it was clear that this journey was providing unexpected personal challenges. He was either beginning to lose his mind, or was undergoing some sort of test of faith. For a second he wondered if he were falling victim to the Plague but as there were no physical symptoms that was dismissed. Equally, he refused to accept the idea that he was in the first stages of insanity. Up to his arrival in the Low Countries, he had been as alert as ever, therefore the only logical alternative was that he was being examined by God. If that were so, then he felt uplifted and energised. If God saw fit to examine his faith and steadfastness then he was ready for the challenge and the honour. Should he pass the examinations then he would surely be prepared for bigger challenges. Maybe God had great things in mind for this humble priest but first his worthiness must be proved. Thus with optimism replacing despair, he stepped out into the drifting snow and set off to find Angelo.
“The left hand panel; it is Eden of course but an Eden populated with extraordinary creatures and edifices. Some of them I am aware of and have even seen a Giraffe in Florence once. The Venetian painter Bellini has also painted the creature and it is almost identical to the one we see here. Others seem to be the stuff of legend and superstition and those in the morass are clearly the stuff of Creation itself, generated from the water, mud and dung.”
The monk chuckled,
“Oh, it is almost certain that Master Bosch copied these animals from books. From what I have heard, he never left ‘s Hertenbosch during his lifetime. I have also seen an elephant drawn by the traveller, Von Breydenbach in his Holy Pilgrimages over two hundred years ago. We have a copy of the book here and the representation is identical but surely, you don’t expect master Bosch to be original and anyway, it is hardly important in the context of the picture as a whole. There is surely room for empirical observation alongside the depiction of fantastical superstition don’t you think? Many make the mistake of singling out details from these panels but I believe Bosch designed them to be viewed as a whole. You are correct in assuming that the left panel is the Creation, though I find it interesting that he allows violence and murder into the Garden before the Fall, suggesting that sin has always existed.”
Pietro frowned,
“Are you referring to the bear and the leopard? That is the natural way of things is it not and not indicative of sin. As you say, this represents Eden before the Fall, God is clearly beneficent here and Adam and Eve are not yet ashamed of their nakedness. There was no sin before the Fall, therefore it cannot be represented here.”
Pietro tried to control his tone and not be too strident. He didn’t wish to frighten the monk away again but inaccuracy was inaccuracy and needed to be corrected. He changed the subject.
“I am very interested in the structures in these scenes. Many seem to be organic and yet many are also undoubtedly glass or metal. Is this also meant to be an alchemical allegory,where the process of distillation imitates creation? That building, or edifice, on the egg shaped rock there, the one with the black birds flying through. The birds fly in a spiral through the tower and emerge to fly downwards in a different colour. Now I’m no expert but in alchemical iconography, birds represent vapours and homes and structures such as this one are the vessels which contain them, am I right? The black birds are the impure gases and after they have been purified, return as white birds and thus clean vapours; or at least that’s what it suggests to me. Oh, now I see it; it’s not a building but a sort of rounded furnace and the openings are ducts for the vapours and thus the flying birds. The owl in the pink fountain too, is that not known as the alchemist’s mascot because he too works through the night?”
Brother Franciscus took a little time before responding. As far as he was concerned, the owl was also a symbol for sinfulness, thus reinforcing his own views that sin was integral to the Garden of Eden. The friar had certainly reacted strongly to the suggestion of amendment to the theory of original sin. Yet was the serpent itself not the epitome of sin and did it not exist in the garden before the Fall? Ach, it didn’t matter but why would an Italian Friar be so interested in a Bosch piece in Brussels in the first place, unless he had another agenda? He wasn’t sure what Fra Pietro’s views on alchemy were, or anything else for that matter.
It paid to take care who you spoke to these days. Maybe he was working for Frans Van Holly, the new Inquisitor General for the Netherlands. Now that was definitely a man to be feared, even by the righteous. Only in January that year, Franciscus had bade a sad farewell to Adrian Boeyens as he set off on his journey to Rome to become Pope. He had been the previous Inquisitor General but one he knew and like personally. Van Holly was a different kettle of fish and his spies were said to be everywhere. If this Friar had been sent to investigate his faith then he must be careful what he said.
They had told him that his introduction came from Desiderius Erasmus himself but maybe that was forged; Erasmus was surely in Switzerland. He needed to be cautious but then again, the study of alchemy was not itself a sin. However, the hours he had spent assisting Count Henry and his friends in their quest for alchemical knowledge, should remain secret. There was always the need at court for more revenue and the rewards for being the first to transmute base metals into gold were incalculable. It was rumoured that the Popes themselves spent countless sums of money on discovering its secrets, so answering the friar’s questions on that subject should be safe enough providing his own involvement was not revealed.
“You may be right Fra Pietro. Certain alchemists believe that the ultimate philosopher’s stone is the Earth itself so I’ve heard; created by God and only able to attain perfection after its destruction and rebirth, as written in the Bible. Thus if these panels are an alchemical tract then they show distillation as the mimicry of creation and I don’t believe that comes into conflict with Christian belief, or does it? Perhaps Bosch scattered his works with alchemical clues because it has become such a secret science in our time and something that occupies the minds of the greatest rulers. In this way, the ignorant cannot interpret what is apparent to the wise. Then again, there are so many charlatans and so many desperate souls who believe them. I’m sure you have them in Italy too. It is also possible Bosch was instructed to convey certain messages in the commission. On the other hand, as you astutely point out, references to alchemical apparatus are not difficult to find in these works. However, like yourself, I can’t pretend to be expert in this area and anything I might say can only be guesswork. I prefer to see the panels for what they outwardly are; that is powerful enough I feel. Let us move on to the central panel shall we?”
Brother Franciscus was satisfied. He had been able to answer the friar’s question without committing himself to a view either way. He knew that certain orders and sections of the Church were opposed to alchemy as a science, viewing it and its practitioners as potential heretics and watching for anything that might countermand the principles of the true faith. Yet others, probably including the Inquisition, whilst seeking out dissidents would not hesitate to eliminate rivals in the race to discover the secrets of untold wealth. He had heard that the coffers of the Vatican were already overflowing with transmuted gold. If that were true then Pietro may be here to seek out other centres of production and while the court of Nassau was certainly not close to a successful formula, the search itself could be incriminating. He had no intention of falling into that particular trap.
Pietro, however, was already absorbed by the activities in the central panel.
“This shows the multiplication of the offspring across the Earth doesn’t it and now I am convinced these panels have an alchemical purpose; they abound with the apparatus of the laboratory and the symbolism of transmutation.”
“Yet is that not the basis of our faith; creation, proliferation and destruction, so that the world maybe reborn and paradise regained? The distillation process is a metaphor for God’s purpose and the essential basis of all life. These paintings bring all the elements together to show that there is no essential difference between the science and the belief. Alchemists seek to imitate with physical elements what God has already done. The striving to imitate God’s work cannot be sinful; what do you believe Pietro?”
Irritated at being questioned in such a way, the friar turned to reprimand his guide.
“You enquire about my faith Brother Franciscus? That is a little presumptuous, along with your statement condoning the practice of alchemy. I would take care if I were you, that such ideas are not publicly broadcast.”
The monk looked at him perplexed.
“I have said nothing for some time Fra Pietro, what can you mean? To what ideas do you refer? I would most certainly never dream of questioning your faith; I don’t understand.”
Even as he spluttered his reply, Pietro knew he was telling the truth. The monk had said nothing yet someone had spoken to him. He looked around the room in the faint hope that there was someone else to account for the voice but of course, there was no one. Could he have imagined it? Was his mind playing tricks with him again? He grasped the monk’s arm a little too tightly so that the poor man winced.
“Of course…I apologise…I must have been thinking out loud but I didn’t mean to accuse you, please, tell me more about the panel.”
He knew he was blustering but needed time to think. Brother Franciscus gave him an anxious glance and then continued.
“As I said before, I prefer to look at the work as if it were simply a representation of God’s word. The central panel is fascinating don’t you think? Play, carnality and sinful coupling in all its forms leading inevitably to the final judgement and the fires of hell for those who did not repent. It is all so satisfyingly complete but what makes it a work of genius to my mind is the complexity of Bosch’s imagery. His references are so diverse and graphic. You take no pleasure from the scenes of lust and are chilled to the bone by the visions of Hell.”
Pietro murmured, more to himself than to his guide,
“So you don’t read this as an alchemical tract?”
Franciscus took this as a further opportunity to distance himself from potential pitfalls.
“No, it stands on its own as a masterly work; I don’t need to search it for hidden references though I don’t deny that they probably exist and now, I must hurry away again. I’m afraid I have an urgent need to relieve myself once more. Perhaps you can inspect the last panel for a short time. I’d be interested in hearing your opinions as to its quality.”
As he hobbled out, Franciscus mused that the last thing he wanted was to hear more of the friar’s views. The man was behaving strangely and he was convinced that there were ulterior motives and that in some way he was being tested. The quicker he could persuade the man to leave the better but he had to be tactful and not appear ruffled. The tension increased his need to piss and he hurried along the corridor in some discomfort.
Fra Pietro now knew all he needed to know regarding the painter Bosch’s acquaintance with the alchemical and hermetic science .The central panel was an homage to the alchemist’s work. There was full scale joining of opposites, black and white even, thus ensuring propagation of the prima material. It was portrayed as joyful intercourse; the evocation of God’s instruction to Adam and Eve to ‘go forth and multiply’ but the subtext was an encouragement to experiment with elements and blend them indiscriminately to see what would emerge. The paintings were littered with hybrids; plant, animal and it seemed, mineral. Many of the so-called ‘children’ were depicted doing cartwheels, or somersaults and thus reversing the accepted order and confirming the alchemical metaphor of the rising of vapours and their eventual condensation. Just as many were forming the letter ‘Y’ with their bodies, thus representing the hermaphrodite and everybody knew that the hermaphrodite represented the fusing of differing elements that occurred during alchemical conjunction. He had also noted many examples of the alchemical lapis; spherical, scarlet berry-like forms, which were not fruit. They shone from the picture like perfect red stones and were clearly edible and worthy of being offered as gifts; as clear a representation of the elixir of life as was possible to show. The panel was filled with what seemed to be fanciful forms and shapes but they could all be compared to diagrams of alchemical apparatus. The dark blue fountain of life for instance; did Bosch really think this could be mistaken for anything other than an alchemical flask? The preponderance of eggs too? This painter may have been clever but he was not subtle; these paintings could be read like a book. Brother Franciscus’ reluctance and apparent disinterest in the symbolism was also noted; the man was clearly involved to a degree that he didn’t wish Pietro to discover. Ah well, add him to the list; the tiny sprats were always found in the bellies of much bigger fish.
Having organised his conclusions in his mind, he turned his attention to the last panel with its visions of Hell. After just a minute’s close study, he found himself shivering. It wasn’t warm, it was true but this wasn’t happening because of the cold. He felt his whole body shaking as he gazed at the scenes of hellfire and destruction. They were shocking because they reminded him of his childhood nightmares. They had tormented him, every night more vivid than the last, for weeks on end, until his mother had given him a sleeping draught to send him into uneasy unconsciousness. The egg man from this last panel, appeared in those dreams too and he could remember his forlorn face, looking back and imploring the child Pietro to rescue him from eternal torment. He noticed the tree trunk legs glowing from within, like stoves, exactly as they had been in his dreams. He could hear the sound of that bagpipe on his head, just as he could then; a swirling, skirling discordant sound emerging from the bulbous, pulsing instrument like a shrieking banshee. He knew then that it was the Devil’s instrument but could also remember the first erections of manhood that he gained every time he heard that sinful sound. The egg man was not original to Bosch of course; he appeared throughout northern folklore but this one was Pietro’s nightmarish familiar. It was also an alchemical motif but this was his egg man, of that he was sure. Certain images from childhood never leave you and this face was as familiar to the priest as his right hand. It was so disturbing this panel, so different from the first two where there was a sort of rural calm and peace. Here was conflagration sliced through by the icy rivers that had once flowed through Eden. Buildings and towns belched smoke and flames and the naked men and women who had frolicked in the garden were now being tormented in unimaginable ways by the demons of Hell. He then caught sight of the shitting bird demon and knew that this was no coincidence. That huge bird creature seated on a sort of commode, eating and excreting sinners into a filthy cesspit, had been the Devil himself to the young child. Where the egg man had begged for his help, the bird demon had talked to him, enticed him and promised him everything he could want in return for his help in punishing sinners. Every night he was told he could force the glutton to vomit for eternity, or make a miser continually shit gold coins if he wished. The most alluring proposition however, was the promise that he could help the demons fondle and assault the lustful until they cried out from pain instead of pleasure. He had imagined himself crawling between the legs of lascivious women and while demons held the drapes open, entering their vaginas. It had been a temptation he didn’t fully understand at the time but led to a lasting revulsion of the female pudenda and possibly to his joining the priesthood.
Since then, he had always regarded large birds with some suspicion, fear even. Those had been his nightmares when he was ten and yet here they were terrifyingly vivid and haunting him once more. Everything he remembered and feared was depicted here before him but none of that was the cause of the feverish shaking now racking his body; that was inspired by the music.
As a child, his tutor had forced him to play the lute as a punishment for stealing a peach from the basket. He couldn’t play a note to begin with but was made to persevere until a recognisable melody could be heard. His parents were away and the tutor had free reign to discipline him as and when necessary but the hours plucking that lute left his fingers bloody and scarred to this day. It was no surprise then that musical instruments played another role in his nightmares and were also employed as instruments of torture. How was it possible that a painter from the north was able to reproduce those scenes so accurately and why did they still have the ability to reduce him to abject fear?
He forced himself to look at the painting, to try to face down his fears and rationalise what he saw. Instead, he felt the agony of the man crushed by the enormous lute and tears flowed down his cheeks at the sight of the one pierced and threaded by the strings of the harp. He could imagine himself in the place of the woman trapped in the hurdy gurdy and his rectum constricted at the thought of a flute being forced in that orifice. The buzzing cacophony of demonic sound gave him an excruciating pain in the back of his head as if the giant knife with the letter omega on the blade had already begun carving through his skull.
With the greatest difficulty, he tore himself away and sank to his knees completely spent.
‘Destruction and annihilation are the foundation stones of life. Do you believe that Pietro? Perfection can only be achieved if imperfection is eradicated. Paradise was lost but will be regained after everything is cleansed and purified by fire. That is the basis of our faith is it not? You worry that in the Final Judgement you will be condemned to Hell because of the sins of your childhood Pietro. Yet you know and believe that man can cleanse himself of his sins within his own lifetime. You do believe that don’t you Pietro? If you live your life in the service of God, as you purport to do, He will forgive you your sins, you will be cleansed and achieve redemption.is that not what the Church teaches? Is God thus also the supreme alchemist? What is your belief Pietro? Do you mistakenly confuse Him with human physicians? Yet alchemists amongst men cannot pretend to be divine, however successful their concoctions.”
This time, the friar knew that the monk had not returned. This voice was in his mind and try as he did to believe that he was talking to himself, the questions were not of his own making and thus had to come from elsewhere. Was God talking to him directly? He hardly dared imagine the possibility and as God was referred to in the third person, he could only assume that someone else was addressing him. He remembered his hallucination in the forest by the hag’s cottage, where St Peter himself had spoken to him in much the same manner of statement and question. Could it be that St. Peter was speaking to him now? That was surely impossible and the thought alone was the sin of supreme arrogance. There must be an explanation but here and now, whilst in such a state of confusion, was not the time to try to find it. His first need was to get away from those panels, out of the palace and into the fresh air. Without looking back at the paintings, he stumbled to his feet and unsteadily made his way into the corridor where a breathless Brother Franciscus confronted him once more.
“Fra Angelo, are you unwell? You look very pale and are those…?”
He paused, unwilling to use the word ‘tears’ but it was clear that the friar was deeply distraught by something. The man was completely unpredictable and possibly unbalanced. Certainly his motives were unclear.
“I am not able to support you alas but I can call someone. Maybe some fresh air would help. The atmosphere here is close and the air is thick with candle smoke, perhaps that has caused you to feel faint?”
Fortunately, both men felt the same need to get Pietro out of the palace as soon as possible and it wasn’t too long before he was able to mutter his thanks to his guide and take his leave. The relief at his exit was mutual.
He had no idea how long it had been since taking leave of Angelo earlier but the light was certainly dim, suggesting that it might be later in the afternoon than he had thought. There was a hush in the streets as most people and their horses and wagons had sensibly taken shelter from the steadily falling snow, which had begun to pile up against the steps and lintels of the houses. It struck him that snow was also one of God’s cleansing agents, at least temporarily. It cloaked all manner of unpleasantness and filth and so long as you remembered that it was merely cosmetic, could be appreciated for its extraordinary beauty.
Taking a moment to get his bearings, Pietro breathed in as deeply as he could. What was happening to him was by no means certain but it was clear that this journey was providing unexpected personal challenges. He was either beginning to lose his mind, or was undergoing some sort of test of faith. For a second he wondered if he were falling victim to the Plague but as there were no physical symptoms that was dismissed. Equally, he refused to accept the idea that he was in the first stages of insanity. Up to his arrival in the Low Countries, he had been as alert as ever, therefore the only logical alternative was that he was being examined by God. If that were so, then he felt uplifted and energised. If God saw fit to examine his faith and steadfastness then he was ready for the challenge and the honour. Should he pass the examinations then he would surely be prepared for bigger challenges. Maybe God had great things in mind for this humble priest but first his worthiness must be proved. Thus with optimism replacing despair, he stepped out into the drifting snow and set off to find Angelo.
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The Dutch Series
Chapter 8 Part 1
The Politics of Belief
The first frost of the winter laced the rooftops, turrets and balconies of Venice like courtesan’s veils and as he pulled himself to his feet, Domenico Grimani groaned at the onset of a cold winter in his joints. The only consolation was that the plagues and diseases of the summer tended to recede when the lagoon was swept by biting winter winds but more than likely, the majority of the season would be cold and pervasively damp and that was torture for the rheumatic.
He debated whether it would be sensible to travel south for the winter; he had rooms in Rome after all and friends in Sicily if needs be. However, with a desk full of despatches from Spain and France, there was certainly work to be done and diplomacy to be practised. Venice remained, as always, under threat from the French as well as the Emperor and the Pope, who like all Popes, would give his right arm at any given opportunity, to diminish Venetian influence. The cardinal’s ability through acting as a go-between, to manipulate the ambitions of the various powers and channel opportunities towards La Serenissima, had always been the secret of his success. His position as one of the foremost patriarchs in the Church and the nepotism of his influence on the actions of the Doge and thus the Venetian Councils left him in an unique position to oversee many of the major movements, both secular and clerical, in Europe.
As always however, Venice’s unique democratic, republican system of government was the most difficult to manipulate. He was a power here for only as long as he was trusted, or feared by sufficient members of the Council and their underlings. It was a spider’s web of intrigue and machination but it was his life’s work and he loved it. Much of the time relying on political intuition and astuteness, he made it his business to know who thought what and why and more importantly, what they intended to do about it but in Venice more than any other city, deceit was a game played at the highest levels. It was not for nothing the city of masks and carnival pretence and the complexity of his current business transactions and negotiations told him that despite his gout, he needed to remain here for the time being. Apart from that, as so often, the climate in Rome was diplomatically chilly at the moment and Grimani always knew when it was expedient to be absent rather than conspicuous. He could always spend some time at his villa in Padua if he needed to leave the dampness of the lagoon.
Besides the political manoeuvring, the alarming incident of the man who had followed him to the Rialto had unnerved him; he had been alarmed at how easily his life could have been taken in a careless moment and had not ventured out alone since. Despite careful study and analysis of the spy’s cryptic warning, he could think of little more than a direct reference to Daniel Bomberghen There was no clue that it referred to anyone else. It was possible that it referred to Abraham Balmes Ben Meir, who as his personal doctor, was the only Jew with whom he had close contact but that was highly unlikely, as was the fact that Daniel was in any way a threat. Merchants such as Daniel were implacably trustworthy. Their greatest crime would be to pass off a counterfeit as the real thing but Daniel had proved himself time and again in that respect and if Grimani was a judge of character at all, he would have sworn that Bomberghen was as reliable as any in his position. As absolute security though, he had ordered that the Dutchman and the Doctor be investigated yet again, though nothing untoward had come to light. His men were also on all significant corners in the city, listening for information and asking pertinent questions. It was at times like these that he wished Pietro were available; if anyone could trace a threat to its source, he could. He picked up the curled paper once again;
'The man who sells deceives but not with the goods he sells, the more in what he believes. The Holy Father eschews the Christian who plays the Jew almost as much as the Jew who is and the Jew who was but now is not. The man who sells, wears masks to play the different parts yet seeks to protect the admirer of his arts.'
The mystery was of course, why he had been warned of an apparent non-existent threat and why by such a misfit as the man in the market. The situation had been menacing, thus ruling out an incognito warning of danger from a friend or ally.
The message had been delivered in such a way as to make Grimani aware of the power of its source; he was not only being warned of a possible Jewish plot but also of the implicit threat from the information giver. It had disturbed him inordinately. Threats per se were however, common occurrences. He was well aware of his enemies and indeed had full dossiers on most of them but this was something different, from someone new and he found it very odd indeed. He had given instructions that security should be increased and that everyone in his private circles be extra aware but apart from that, life had to continue as normal; there was simply too much to be seen to.
As the sun burned its way through the icy mist and the frost threads began to shrink from the roofs and bridges, he prepared himself for his next appointment, by having his manservant help him don his most luxurious robes and drape himself in as many baubles of office as the limits of taste might dictate. It was a laborious task, as this cardinal who had been on the threshold of the Holy See itself, had by definition, acquired the finest vestments and the gaudiest jewels. After some effort, he transformed himself from a gout-ridden, older man in a nightshirt, into a Catholic grandee, whose appearance reflected the opulence of the city itself and whose very presence exuded the power of the Christian church.
He had deliberately chosen a small, isolated room at the end of a long corridor in the bowels of the palace. It was desirable that this visit should go unnoticed by those who regularly monitored his activities and the man who now bowed deeply before him, was cloaked from head to toe to avoid recognition. In retrospect, Grimani was glad he had gone to the trouble of dressing the part, as the dowdy chrysalis became the gaudiest of butterflies as soon as the disguise was shed.
Despite the lack of a towering turban that would have given him away instantly, Pasha Piri Mehmed was an imposing presence and as at their one previous meeting, Grimani was impressed. The quality and richness of the gleaming silks of his clothing were unsurpassed, compared even to Grimani’s own wardrobe and as the Pasha dismissed his lackey with a finger flick, the cardinal reminded himself that he would be dealing with the representative of the fastest growing power on earth. The man’s grooming was impeccable and the scent of sandalwood and spice filled the room giving the cardinal the urge to sniff himself to check his own personal hygiene. The Turk had a fearsome expression to complement the sharpness of his beard and not for a second did he remove his eyes from his host before lowering himself into the chair. In this respect however, Grimani was his match, recognising all the expressions and gestures designed to strike fear into your opponent and gain advantage. This would be a very sensitive meeting and one at enormous personal risk to his guest but the fact that it had been requested and that the ambassador was of the highest calibre enormously intrigued the cardinal.
The Pasha opened the proceedings,
“It is pleasing to see you again cardinal and I see that the years have been kind to you. If it pleases you, I have a gift for you Your Eminence. Hopefully its quality will convince you of the importance attached to this meeting.”
He handed Grimani a parchment and a tiny, polished cedar box, inlaid with exquisitely intricate patterns created from ivory and gold. Before opening the box, Grimani bowed in acknowledgement and unrolled the scroll. There in both Latin and Arabic was the Sultan’s message. It was headed by his elegant, gold-leafed monogram, which Grimani knew as the Tughra and the message itself was hand written in the most beautiful calligraphy the cardinal had ever seen. Noting his clear admiration, the Pasha commented;
“We call that script Diwani and are pleased with its intricate beauty. Suleiman the Lawgiver himself has encouraged its development and as we speak, many work on its refinement.”
“It’s exquisite,” murmured the cardinal tracing his fingers over the text as if trying to learn the symbols, “I would greatly appreciate a longer example for my collection”.
Piri Mehmed bowed,
“I will convey your request.”
Grimani concentrated on reading the message in Latin.
‘I, who am Sultan of the Sultans of East and West, fortunate lord of the domains of the Romans, Persians, and Arabs, Hero of creation, Neriman of the earth and time, Padishah and Sultan of the Mediterranean and the Black Sea, of the extolled Kaabaa and Medina the illustrious and Jerusalem of the noble, of the throne of Egypt and the province of Yemen, Aden, and San'a, of Baghdad and Basra and Lhasa and Ctesiphon, of the lands of Algiers and Azerbaijan, of the region of the Kipshaks and the lands o f the Tartars, of Kurdistan and Luristan and all Rumelia, Anatolia and Karaman, of Wallachia and Moldavia and Hungary and many kingdoms and lands besides; the Sultan Suleiman Khan, son of the Sultan Selim Khan; send greetings to Cardinal Domenico Grimani and pray that he will be amused by our, of necessity, small and insignificant gift. With good fortune, the results of his discussions with our emissary will result in much greater future rewards and mutually beneficial relations between the Ottoman court and the Republic of Venice.’
If the cardinal was impressed by the extent of the Sultan’s claims, he didn’t show it. He was already fully aware of the might of Suleiman’s empire and of its ambitions; his only concern was to protect the interests of the Serenissima and that would be no easy task but first the formalities. He now turned to the box.
“This also has great beauty and very fine workmanship. If the contents are as impressive as the casket, I will be very pleased indeed.”
However, try as he might, he couldn’t find a catch to open the box. Trying not to feel foolish, he handed it back to the Pasha.
“My age and my eyesight are not up to the task I fear; would you be so kind?”
The man bowed yet again.
“I may not open the box Eminence but if you press the head of the peacock with your forefinger, you will find that it opens easily.”
Grimani hid his amazement and did as instructed, finding the peacock’s head amongst the elaborate ornamentation and pressing firmly down. With a click, the box sprang open and his gift was revealed. It was a ring and he couldn’t help gasping as the diamond and rubies caught even the poor light in the room and flicked it from every facet across the walls and ceiling.
“I am truly honoured Pasha Piri Mehmed; this is a gem of astonishing beauty and you must express my warmest thanks to the Sultan for his generosity; I am truly not worthy.”
“Oh but he thinks you are Your Eminence and the Sultana Asseki herself selected the ring from her personal collection, as a token of esteem from both their Highnesses.”
Grimani understood this to mean that Piri Mehmed was aware, as he was himself, of the influence the Sultana had over Suleiman. It was rumoured that she was originally a Russian concubine whose skills in the harem had bewitched the Sultan and led to her being the first consort ever to reside within the walls of the Topkapi. It was also rumoured that she plotted his campaigns at his side and the removal of rivals behind his back; clearly a ruthless woman and one to be respected. With that in mind, he had chosen his own gift with care.
“I too have a small something for their serene highnesses and hopefully it will not be an encumbrance on your return journey.”
He reached into a drawer and presented the Pasha with a marginally larger box than the one he had received. Though inlaid with black jet and amber from the Baltic it was markedly less fine than the ring casket. He hoped that the contents would make up for that. He’d enclosed a miniature painting of the Madonna of the Meadow by Venice’s own, Giovanni Bellini and hoped that its elegant grace would appeal as much to the Sultana as to Suleiman himself. He had been told that the Sultan’s cultured taste appreciated Christian paintings for their artistic qualities, whilst using Christian skulls to build mosques in the Balkans. The Sultan was already famed for his encouragement of Moslem art and architecture and had it been possible, Grimani would have liked to spend some time discussing the subject in depth with such figures as Mimar Sinan the architect and even the Sultan himself, whose poetry was already renowned.
The Pasha bowed once more, took the box and slipped it into the folds of his robe. He wouldn’t of course open it or be so impolite as to ask about its contents but the cardinal hoped he was at least curious.
“With your permission, maybe we should now dispense with the formalities and proceed with business? I am well aware that your time here is short and that your presence here is not without danger but I assume it is a mission of some importance for you to honour me personally with your presence. I am curious as to why you requested this meeting; how can I be of help?”
Pasha Piri Mehmed leaned forward and spoke in a low, conspiratorial tone.
“I trust cardinal, that we are completely alone in this room. We have great respect for your reputation for diplomacy and take it for granted that our conversation will be private but I must be sure.”
“Of that you can be sure. I am also well aware of the significance of this meeting and have taken great care that our privacy will be guaranteed. The room is not connected to others and my guards will ensure that nobody can stray within listening distance. Please, feel free to speak openly.”
There was something in the Pasha’s tone that alerted Grimani’s finely tuned, political intuition; was it possible that the man was not only representing the Sultan’s interests but also his own? He also leaned forward to listen, his curiosity aroused.
“I don’t know the extent of your information regarding affairs at our court, though your reputation suggests that you are well informed about many unexpected things. What I am about to tell you is not lightly given I can assure you. It would certainly cost me my life if it were to emerge because of this meeting. The truth is that my position as Grand Vizier is not as strong as it could be and besides my mission to gather information for the Sultan, I am here with a tentative request of my own.”
Grimani had suspected as much. Piri Mehmed had been ‘inherited’ as Grand Vizier from the previous Sultan Selim. He was of the old regime and despite his obvious political experience, was considered by Grimani’s informants to be expendable if only because of his ties to the previous ruler. Besides, Suleiman had another favourite, Ibrahim, who was widely rumoured to be on the verge of promotion. That man was a fervent supporter of Suleiman’s reforms and aggressive foreign policy and was known to be admired by the Sultana too. Constantinople was undoubtedly the most powerful city in the known world and to rule both it and the empire guaranteed immense power. Yet only the strongest survived the machinations of the Ottoman court. Piri Mehmed was probably on a mission to save his skin; that much was now clear though the cardinal was not quite sure why he had chosen Venice as a possible sanctuary. Whatever the motives, such personal guarantees of safety would not come cheaply and he determined to take the opportunity to glean beneficial information for the republic.
The Politics of Belief
The first frost of the winter laced the rooftops, turrets and balconies of Venice like courtesan’s veils and as he pulled himself to his feet, Domenico Grimani groaned at the onset of a cold winter in his joints. The only consolation was that the plagues and diseases of the summer tended to recede when the lagoon was swept by biting winter winds but more than likely, the majority of the season would be cold and pervasively damp and that was torture for the rheumatic.
He debated whether it would be sensible to travel south for the winter; he had rooms in Rome after all and friends in Sicily if needs be. However, with a desk full of despatches from Spain and France, there was certainly work to be done and diplomacy to be practised. Venice remained, as always, under threat from the French as well as the Emperor and the Pope, who like all Popes, would give his right arm at any given opportunity, to diminish Venetian influence. The cardinal’s ability through acting as a go-between, to manipulate the ambitions of the various powers and channel opportunities towards La Serenissima, had always been the secret of his success. His position as one of the foremost patriarchs in the Church and the nepotism of his influence on the actions of the Doge and thus the Venetian Councils left him in an unique position to oversee many of the major movements, both secular and clerical, in Europe.
As always however, Venice’s unique democratic, republican system of government was the most difficult to manipulate. He was a power here for only as long as he was trusted, or feared by sufficient members of the Council and their underlings. It was a spider’s web of intrigue and machination but it was his life’s work and he loved it. Much of the time relying on political intuition and astuteness, he made it his business to know who thought what and why and more importantly, what they intended to do about it but in Venice more than any other city, deceit was a game played at the highest levels. It was not for nothing the city of masks and carnival pretence and the complexity of his current business transactions and negotiations told him that despite his gout, he needed to remain here for the time being. Apart from that, as so often, the climate in Rome was diplomatically chilly at the moment and Grimani always knew when it was expedient to be absent rather than conspicuous. He could always spend some time at his villa in Padua if he needed to leave the dampness of the lagoon.
Besides the political manoeuvring, the alarming incident of the man who had followed him to the Rialto had unnerved him; he had been alarmed at how easily his life could have been taken in a careless moment and had not ventured out alone since. Despite careful study and analysis of the spy’s cryptic warning, he could think of little more than a direct reference to Daniel Bomberghen There was no clue that it referred to anyone else. It was possible that it referred to Abraham Balmes Ben Meir, who as his personal doctor, was the only Jew with whom he had close contact but that was highly unlikely, as was the fact that Daniel was in any way a threat. Merchants such as Daniel were implacably trustworthy. Their greatest crime would be to pass off a counterfeit as the real thing but Daniel had proved himself time and again in that respect and if Grimani was a judge of character at all, he would have sworn that Bomberghen was as reliable as any in his position. As absolute security though, he had ordered that the Dutchman and the Doctor be investigated yet again, though nothing untoward had come to light. His men were also on all significant corners in the city, listening for information and asking pertinent questions. It was at times like these that he wished Pietro were available; if anyone could trace a threat to its source, he could. He picked up the curled paper once again;
'The man who sells deceives but not with the goods he sells, the more in what he believes. The Holy Father eschews the Christian who plays the Jew almost as much as the Jew who is and the Jew who was but now is not. The man who sells, wears masks to play the different parts yet seeks to protect the admirer of his arts.'
The mystery was of course, why he had been warned of an apparent non-existent threat and why by such a misfit as the man in the market. The situation had been menacing, thus ruling out an incognito warning of danger from a friend or ally.
The message had been delivered in such a way as to make Grimani aware of the power of its source; he was not only being warned of a possible Jewish plot but also of the implicit threat from the information giver. It had disturbed him inordinately. Threats per se were however, common occurrences. He was well aware of his enemies and indeed had full dossiers on most of them but this was something different, from someone new and he found it very odd indeed. He had given instructions that security should be increased and that everyone in his private circles be extra aware but apart from that, life had to continue as normal; there was simply too much to be seen to.
As the sun burned its way through the icy mist and the frost threads began to shrink from the roofs and bridges, he prepared himself for his next appointment, by having his manservant help him don his most luxurious robes and drape himself in as many baubles of office as the limits of taste might dictate. It was a laborious task, as this cardinal who had been on the threshold of the Holy See itself, had by definition, acquired the finest vestments and the gaudiest jewels. After some effort, he transformed himself from a gout-ridden, older man in a nightshirt, into a Catholic grandee, whose appearance reflected the opulence of the city itself and whose very presence exuded the power of the Christian church.
He had deliberately chosen a small, isolated room at the end of a long corridor in the bowels of the palace. It was desirable that this visit should go unnoticed by those who regularly monitored his activities and the man who now bowed deeply before him, was cloaked from head to toe to avoid recognition. In retrospect, Grimani was glad he had gone to the trouble of dressing the part, as the dowdy chrysalis became the gaudiest of butterflies as soon as the disguise was shed.
Despite the lack of a towering turban that would have given him away instantly, Pasha Piri Mehmed was an imposing presence and as at their one previous meeting, Grimani was impressed. The quality and richness of the gleaming silks of his clothing were unsurpassed, compared even to Grimani’s own wardrobe and as the Pasha dismissed his lackey with a finger flick, the cardinal reminded himself that he would be dealing with the representative of the fastest growing power on earth. The man’s grooming was impeccable and the scent of sandalwood and spice filled the room giving the cardinal the urge to sniff himself to check his own personal hygiene. The Turk had a fearsome expression to complement the sharpness of his beard and not for a second did he remove his eyes from his host before lowering himself into the chair. In this respect however, Grimani was his match, recognising all the expressions and gestures designed to strike fear into your opponent and gain advantage. This would be a very sensitive meeting and one at enormous personal risk to his guest but the fact that it had been requested and that the ambassador was of the highest calibre enormously intrigued the cardinal.
The Pasha opened the proceedings,
“It is pleasing to see you again cardinal and I see that the years have been kind to you. If it pleases you, I have a gift for you Your Eminence. Hopefully its quality will convince you of the importance attached to this meeting.”
He handed Grimani a parchment and a tiny, polished cedar box, inlaid with exquisitely intricate patterns created from ivory and gold. Before opening the box, Grimani bowed in acknowledgement and unrolled the scroll. There in both Latin and Arabic was the Sultan’s message. It was headed by his elegant, gold-leafed monogram, which Grimani knew as the Tughra and the message itself was hand written in the most beautiful calligraphy the cardinal had ever seen. Noting his clear admiration, the Pasha commented;
“We call that script Diwani and are pleased with its intricate beauty. Suleiman the Lawgiver himself has encouraged its development and as we speak, many work on its refinement.”
“It’s exquisite,” murmured the cardinal tracing his fingers over the text as if trying to learn the symbols, “I would greatly appreciate a longer example for my collection”.
Piri Mehmed bowed,
“I will convey your request.”
Grimani concentrated on reading the message in Latin.
‘I, who am Sultan of the Sultans of East and West, fortunate lord of the domains of the Romans, Persians, and Arabs, Hero of creation, Neriman of the earth and time, Padishah and Sultan of the Mediterranean and the Black Sea, of the extolled Kaabaa and Medina the illustrious and Jerusalem of the noble, of the throne of Egypt and the province of Yemen, Aden, and San'a, of Baghdad and Basra and Lhasa and Ctesiphon, of the lands of Algiers and Azerbaijan, of the region of the Kipshaks and the lands o f the Tartars, of Kurdistan and Luristan and all Rumelia, Anatolia and Karaman, of Wallachia and Moldavia and Hungary and many kingdoms and lands besides; the Sultan Suleiman Khan, son of the Sultan Selim Khan; send greetings to Cardinal Domenico Grimani and pray that he will be amused by our, of necessity, small and insignificant gift. With good fortune, the results of his discussions with our emissary will result in much greater future rewards and mutually beneficial relations between the Ottoman court and the Republic of Venice.’
If the cardinal was impressed by the extent of the Sultan’s claims, he didn’t show it. He was already fully aware of the might of Suleiman’s empire and of its ambitions; his only concern was to protect the interests of the Serenissima and that would be no easy task but first the formalities. He now turned to the box.
“This also has great beauty and very fine workmanship. If the contents are as impressive as the casket, I will be very pleased indeed.”
However, try as he might, he couldn’t find a catch to open the box. Trying not to feel foolish, he handed it back to the Pasha.
“My age and my eyesight are not up to the task I fear; would you be so kind?”
The man bowed yet again.
“I may not open the box Eminence but if you press the head of the peacock with your forefinger, you will find that it opens easily.”
Grimani hid his amazement and did as instructed, finding the peacock’s head amongst the elaborate ornamentation and pressing firmly down. With a click, the box sprang open and his gift was revealed. It was a ring and he couldn’t help gasping as the diamond and rubies caught even the poor light in the room and flicked it from every facet across the walls and ceiling.
“I am truly honoured Pasha Piri Mehmed; this is a gem of astonishing beauty and you must express my warmest thanks to the Sultan for his generosity; I am truly not worthy.”
“Oh but he thinks you are Your Eminence and the Sultana Asseki herself selected the ring from her personal collection, as a token of esteem from both their Highnesses.”
Grimani understood this to mean that Piri Mehmed was aware, as he was himself, of the influence the Sultana had over Suleiman. It was rumoured that she was originally a Russian concubine whose skills in the harem had bewitched the Sultan and led to her being the first consort ever to reside within the walls of the Topkapi. It was also rumoured that she plotted his campaigns at his side and the removal of rivals behind his back; clearly a ruthless woman and one to be respected. With that in mind, he had chosen his own gift with care.
“I too have a small something for their serene highnesses and hopefully it will not be an encumbrance on your return journey.”
He reached into a drawer and presented the Pasha with a marginally larger box than the one he had received. Though inlaid with black jet and amber from the Baltic it was markedly less fine than the ring casket. He hoped that the contents would make up for that. He’d enclosed a miniature painting of the Madonna of the Meadow by Venice’s own, Giovanni Bellini and hoped that its elegant grace would appeal as much to the Sultana as to Suleiman himself. He had been told that the Sultan’s cultured taste appreciated Christian paintings for their artistic qualities, whilst using Christian skulls to build mosques in the Balkans. The Sultan was already famed for his encouragement of Moslem art and architecture and had it been possible, Grimani would have liked to spend some time discussing the subject in depth with such figures as Mimar Sinan the architect and even the Sultan himself, whose poetry was already renowned.
The Pasha bowed once more, took the box and slipped it into the folds of his robe. He wouldn’t of course open it or be so impolite as to ask about its contents but the cardinal hoped he was at least curious.
“With your permission, maybe we should now dispense with the formalities and proceed with business? I am well aware that your time here is short and that your presence here is not without danger but I assume it is a mission of some importance for you to honour me personally with your presence. I am curious as to why you requested this meeting; how can I be of help?”
Pasha Piri Mehmed leaned forward and spoke in a low, conspiratorial tone.
“I trust cardinal, that we are completely alone in this room. We have great respect for your reputation for diplomacy and take it for granted that our conversation will be private but I must be sure.”
“Of that you can be sure. I am also well aware of the significance of this meeting and have taken great care that our privacy will be guaranteed. The room is not connected to others and my guards will ensure that nobody can stray within listening distance. Please, feel free to speak openly.”
There was something in the Pasha’s tone that alerted Grimani’s finely tuned, political intuition; was it possible that the man was not only representing the Sultan’s interests but also his own? He also leaned forward to listen, his curiosity aroused.
“I don’t know the extent of your information regarding affairs at our court, though your reputation suggests that you are well informed about many unexpected things. What I am about to tell you is not lightly given I can assure you. It would certainly cost me my life if it were to emerge because of this meeting. The truth is that my position as Grand Vizier is not as strong as it could be and besides my mission to gather information for the Sultan, I am here with a tentative request of my own.”
Grimani had suspected as much. Piri Mehmed had been ‘inherited’ as Grand Vizier from the previous Sultan Selim. He was of the old regime and despite his obvious political experience, was considered by Grimani’s informants to be expendable if only because of his ties to the previous ruler. Besides, Suleiman had another favourite, Ibrahim, who was widely rumoured to be on the verge of promotion. That man was a fervent supporter of Suleiman’s reforms and aggressive foreign policy and was known to be admired by the Sultana too. Constantinople was undoubtedly the most powerful city in the known world and to rule both it and the empire guaranteed immense power. Yet only the strongest survived the machinations of the Ottoman court. Piri Mehmed was probably on a mission to save his skin; that much was now clear though the cardinal was not quite sure why he had chosen Venice as a possible sanctuary. Whatever the motives, such personal guarantees of safety would not come cheaply and he determined to take the opportunity to glean beneficial information for the republic.